


Cold as the Ocean, High as the Sky

by altairity



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 19:43:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altairity/pseuds/altairity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fushimi, getting used to wearing blue. Vignettes on Fushimi's first days in SCEPTER 4 from the point of view of the Blue Clan's main trio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold as the Ocean, High as the Sky

“Fushimi… kun.” She has to remember to add the suffix as she surveys the new recruit slouching across from her in the captain’s office. His hand is extended to her across Munakata’s desk, proffering a thin stack of papers. Something about even the very arch of his wrist is languid, almost limp at first glance, but wrung through with a certain brand of tension she is quickly learning to associate with the young man. “This concludes the official paperwork. Starting tomorrow, you will be assigned to the new recruits squad.” 

“Welcome to SCEPTER 4,” Munakata announces, hands folded in front of his mouth. 

The young man bows, and maybe it’s because of Munakata’s words, or because the angle of Fushimi’s collarbone as he inclines his head allows her a glimpse behind the lapels of his jacket, but Awashima can’t help the flicker of genuine interest that filters into her voice. 

“Fushimi-kun,” and this time there’s no hesitation. “Your HOMRA tattoo… what happened to it?” 

Is it her imagination, or does he softly click his tongue as he looks away? In coming days she’d become all too familiar with her subordinate’s habits of expression. But for now he quickly masks his annoyed look with a practiced blankness. “What do you mean, ma’am?” She doesn’t miss the slight shifting of his weight that obscures it further from view behind his collar. 

“Indeed,” Munakata adds, leaning forward. “It appears to be burned. If I may…?”

Fushimi doesn’t exactly look pleased as Munakata stands and gently pushes aside his collar, but he doesn’t resist either. Awashima draws the air through her teeth as she sees the blackened marks over the curls of red ink, but Munakata betrays no visible reaction. 

“Fushimi-kun, this will have to be treated lest it become infected. Awashima-kun…” 

“Yes, sir.” She reaches into the third drawer of Munakata’s desk. 

This time she definitely hears Fushimi click his tongue, louder now, as he sees the first-aid kit. “It’s fine,” the teen—she has to remind herself of that he’s only such—replies, his mouth curving in displeasure. “There’s no risk of infection. HOMRA flames sterilize any wound.” 

“Nevertheless, please have a seat.” Munakata gestures, and she pulls two chairs from a nearby table and moves them in front of his desk. Grumbling slightly, the young man folds his body onto one and shrugs off his jacket. Both she and Munakata watch him as he undoes the buttons of his shirt underneath and slips it down his shoulder just enough to expose the expanse of skin around the tattoo and one shoulder. 

It’s an angry mark, freshly scarring over like someone’s dragged a rake over the tattoo. Awashima dips a cotton ball in alcohol and dabs it over the wound with a practiced hand. Fushimi tenses, the cords standing out in his neck delicate as violin strings, but only lets a low “Tssssss…!” escape between his teeth. 

After she cleans the burns, Awashima spreads a cooling balm onto them with a Q-tip. “How did this happen?” 

Through gritted teeth, the young man mutters, “Thought I’d give myself a little reminder of where I stand now.” 

At this, Munakata raises his eyes from the files he’d been perusing, and Awashima feels the subtle prickling of the air that means something has caught his interest. Maybe it’s the tone in which Fushimi has just spoken; though quieter now than before, his voice is suffused with skeins of something rich and bitter. It’s a most unexpected timbre, far from the bored and dry (if respectful) tone he’s used so far with them as well as the authoritative bark she’ll eventually hear him use when he has subordinates of his own. 

If she’s honest, she’ll admit to the same interest in him, watching at him tense at her touch. He’s like clay, able to taken in hand and molded, yet also already dried and cracked in places. Who knows if, applying pressure, they’ll sculpt him into SCEPTER 4’s model of rigid efficiency or simply crush him to pieces?

She’s known Munakata long enough to know that he looks forward to both possibilities. And that makes her anticipate them as well.

**v**

Munakata is strolling around the premises, mulling over a case, when he stops by the training grounds to watch the new recruits spar with the current members. Awashima is directing them, her voice ever cold, contrasting with the summer heat and the panting of the men. She salutes him as he approaches.

“How are things?” 

“As well as can be expected, sir. Benzai-kun twisted an ankle earlier this morning and is now in the infirmary. Gotou-kun broke his sword and needs a replacement. Oh, but Fushimi-kun is doing well. He won in our mock tournament yesterday.” 

Munakata glances over the fray, eyes drawn to Fushimi in a movement simple as one end of a magnet sliding to embrace the other. He’s sparring with Akiyama right now, blunt sword against blunt sword. They fly in dashes of blue only halted by the awkwardness of a missed parry or clumsy lunge. Akiyama, despite being his senior, is losing to Fushimi’s superior reflexes. The former HOMRA member is not used to this kind of activity calling for speed and precision rather than brute force, but Munakata can tell he’s suited to it. 

“Very good. Are they ready for the special training?” 

“Yes, sir.”

Munakata doesn’t need to raise his voice or summon a wave of power to command his men’s attention. He simply activates his aura, and each one of them turns to face him. 

“Men,” he addresses them, “Today’s special training will focus on combatting the powers of another clan. Fushimi-kun, if you would come forth.” 

The boy cannot yet mask the surprise that flits over him as he sheathes his sword and steps forward beside Munakata. He continues, “You will spar one-on-one with Fushimi-kun using your blue auras against Fushimi-kun’s red.” 

At this, Fushimi’s gaze snaps over to him. _You didn’t tell me about this,_ his eyes smolder, but Munakata only answers him with a leveling glance.

“Akiyama-kun, you’re first.” The green-haired man inclines his head, then faces Fushimi. The others clear a space for them to spar. “Go ahead, Fushimi-kun. Show us what you’ve learned under the Red King.” 

Unmistakable resent darts across Fushimi’s deep blue eyes at this remark, and Munakata can only smile at it, can only revel in the flutter of fascination that starts deep within his benevolently apathetic exterior. Then a brilliant aura of red flares up around Fushimi’s lithe form, incongruous and beautiful against the dark blue of his uniform, and the other recruits murmur at seeing the rumors confirmed. Even Awashima’s eyes widen. 

Fushimi wields his Red powers differently than Suoh does, lacking the king’s unrestrained grace or pure power but compensating with quickness. Watching him fight, Munakata thinks of Suoh, and what he would think of this spectacle. 

“He’s got the instincts,” Awashima comments dispassionately, hands on hips. But her gaze flits to Munakata’s, measuring. 

He doesn’t answer it, instead ushering Kamo to the forefront next. On and on it goes, blue against red against blue, Fushimi’s movements soon assuming their own kind of rhythm. After half an hour, the boy’s feet start to drag longer on the ground before jumping, and the front of his uniform is scuffed with dirt. Still Munakata sends the other recruits to spar, watching Fushimi fight and fight and finally falter. 

When the former HOMRA member collapses to one knee after Fuse lands a particularly well-aimed strike, Munakata finally calls the training to a halt. “Come here, Fushimi-kun,” he calls. “The rest of you, pair up and continue sparring.” 

Fushimi uses the end of his saber to push himself up. As he weaves through the crowd of sparring recruits, Munakata lets his eyes linger over the accoutrements of scratches and bruises he’s laid upon the boy without lifting a finger. His breath comes hard, but the eyes are set as steel. When he reaches Munakata and Awashima, he says, labored but clear, “Captain. Lieutenant.” 

“You did well, Fushimi-kun,” Munakata says, and places a hand on Fushimi’s shoulder. The bone underneath juts into his palm in what feels like a perfect fit. He stares into Fushimi’s eyes, those guarded but still helplessly young eyes, with their usual threat of latent insubordination eclipsed by exhaustion and perhaps a flicker of pride at his words. 

“You have leave to take the rest of the day off,” Awashima says. 

Fushimi looks at Munakata a moment longer, and when the latter doesn’t lift his hand from his shoulder, he simply slips out from under it and pushes past them. 

Munakata folds his arms behind his back. Awashima can read the tilt to his lips as clearly as if he had been grinning. 

“I thought you didn’t like wild cards.” 

“Didn’t I tell you, Awashima-kun? Only when they’re not in my hand.”

**v**

Damn it. He’s sure they’re going to scold him for this, or at least give him an extra week’s worth of busywork, both of which will be inevitably, equally troublesome.

“Come in, Fushimi-kun,” is the answer to his knock. The captain sounds as dispassionate as always, but who knows what that man’s thinking? He steps into Munakata’s office to see a familiar tableau: the captain seated at his desk, hands steepled on its surface, the lieutenant standing at attention next to him. 

“Regarding your actions during the incident with the Red Clan yesterday,” Munakata says, and Fushimi absentmindedly flicks his tongue against his teeth in annoyance. “You engaged with one of their members, one Yata Misaki, against orders, and fought in a public setting.” 

He bites the inside of his cheek, willing the heat that rises to his face to back down. Yes, it had been stupid of him, but he hadn’t been able to resist mocking Misaki in his blue uniform for the first time, and besides he’d thought they were in an out-of-the-way enough street not to be spotted. Leave it to the captain to check the security tapes. 

“The two of you share a past, do you not?” 

“You could say that,” he grits out. 

“So it is.” Munakata leans back, considering, and for a terrible moment Fushimi wonders if he’ll be booted out. Then it passes and the captain says, “Fushimi-kun. I called you in here because I wanted to promote you to SCEPTER 4’s third-in-command.” 

He swallows a gasp. Munakata is dead serious, and Awashima shows no sign of surprise behind him. Unbidden, his hands start to shake, and he quickly clasps them behind his back. 

“You have proven yourself in both the battlefield and the office, Fushimi-kun. Lest you become bored, I thought you would benefit from some new responsibilities. You certainly have the passion when you apply yourself.” 

Fushimi sees something in the captain’s eyes that’s enigmatic and strange but definitely interested, and for the first time since his induction into SCEPTER 4 he feels a tightening thrill in his stomach. So this place isn’t as dry as it looked after all. So even the captain has his own quirks, and how fortunate that he’s amenable to this _passion_ of his. 

He bows, leaning purposefully low to hide the smirk that threatens to swallow his features. When he rises, his superiors are both observing him with carefully blank expressions. Awashima’s gaze washes over him in freezing waves, and Munakata’s aura radiates from him, filling the air around them with the promise of power. Behind their courteously professional exteriors, both of them are somehow ineffable, inexpressibly vast inside like the sea or the sky. That’s SCEPTER 4, he muses. It may not be as flashy or forthright as red, but blue’s anything but a static color.


End file.
